


so tell me you want it (a thousand miles away from the day that we started)

by dwoht, robinbuckli



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, Fluff, canon universe except maybe slightly less dramatic, season 4 & 5 were on crack so most of that plot is irrelevant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:35:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23277193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dwoht/pseuds/dwoht, https://archiveofourown.org/users/robinbuckli/pseuds/robinbuckli
Summary: if honesty means telling you the truth /well, i'm still in love with you /or,quinn and rachel reunite seven years post-graduation.
Relationships: Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray
Comments: 28
Kudos: 217





	so tell me you want it (a thousand miles away from the day that we started)

**Rachel Berry  
**Just Now ● Friends of Friends

_Hello, Facebook!_

_I’ve been telling a few people here and there, but it seems like it might be time to come clean to everyone else... I’m moving! That’s right; Broadway Berry is no more. Say hello to Netflix Original Berry! By the end of the month, I’ll be settled in Santa Cruz, California._

_I stepped onto the Broadway stage about six years ago, just two years after graduating high school, and it has been a rollercoaster ever since. Truly a dream come true, and more than I could ever ask for._

_But, you know me! Never satisfied. I was given an opportunity to audition for a script I absolutely love, and I couldn’t turn it down when they offered me the role. I know I’m going to have so much fun filming this, and I’m so excited to share more information with you as they allow._

_I can’t think you all enough for everything you’ve done for me over the past many many years, despite the many insufferably obnoxious moments I may have put you through. Anyone on my friends list has played a crucial role in who I am today, and I hope you stick around on the next leg of this journey._

_Love,_ _  
_ _Rachel_

The post hasn’t even been up for fifteen minutes, and her Facebook notifications are already blowing up her phone. Lots of heart reactions, likes, comments, Mercedes demanding to know why _she_ had to find out over social media, and while Rachel is appreciative, as always, it’s a bit much while she’s just trying to watch TV.

Turning her attention back to the trials and tribulations of Jake Peralta and Amy Santiago, she takes a deep breath, and silences her phone.

It’s a good idea at the time.

Two hours later, however, when she finally gets around to opening her Facebook again, she realizes she silenced her phone five minutes before a _very_ important message, and was blissfully unaware for a grand total of one hour and fifty-five minutes.

It’s probably a good thing she didn’t see it right away, or the poor sender would have been bombarded with a reply almost instantly, but she’d be lying if it didn’t frustrate her to know she missed the chance to have a full conversation right then and there.

 **Quinn Fabray  
**Active 2h ago

 **5:54 PM:** _Hey, Rachel. Just wanted to say  
congrats on the big move. Let me know  
if you’d ever want to grab lunch. :)_

The implications of the message point to the idea that Quinn actually lives in Santa Cruz, or, at least, somewhere close-by. Rachel is wondering how she didn’t know that, when the remainder of the message catches up. Grab lunch? Like, with _her_?

“Duh, what else?” she mutters at herself. Her fingers are shaking ever-so-slightly when she switches to the phone app, and she’s hoping to God that Quinn doesn’t come online and think she got left on read.

“You’ve reached the voicemail of Santana Lopez. Please leave a message. Make it interesting, and I’ll call you back, maybe.”

Rachel groans, and starts, “Santana, I really need you to --”

“-- just kidding! I’m here, what’s up?”

“Terrible prank,” Rachel says, and ignores Santana’s scoff as she continues, “I need help.”

“Yeah, I figured,” Santana says. “So?”

“Quinn wants to get lunch with me,” Rachel says.

There’s a pause. Then, “And? What’s the problem?”

“What? I don’t _know,_ ” Rachel says indignantly. “Do I ever? I was just going to give you the situation and let you give advice. Based on the advice, I’d figure out my issue.”

“My advice is to get lunch and don’t be weird,” Santana says. “Wait... don’t tell me you’re freaking out because you still have the hots for Fabray.”

“Um, no,” Rachel says, very unconvincingly. She chews on her bottom lip. “On the bright side, I knew you’d figure out my problem.”

“Oh, my God,” Santana sighs. “How many years has it been? How many rebounds? Seriously?”

“I don’t think it’s considered a rebound if we never actually dated,” Rachel says, “which is totally not the point, of course. It’s been almost eight years, and three boyfriends.”

“Well, I hate that you actually can tell me how long it’s been off the top of your head,” Santana says, “but my original advice kind of still stands. Now’s your chance, right?”

“To do what?” Rachel asks.

“To stop wasting your time with boys who you only like the idea of, and actually date someone you’re interested in?” Santana says, like it’s obvious, which it is. 

“I don’t know,” Rachel says. “I mean, we really haven’t spoken in _so_ long. After she friended me on Facebook a few years ago, we started wishing each other happy birthdays and stuff, but that’s kind of it.”

“Unlike you, I didn’t cut off any blonde cheerleaders from my past,” Santana says, “so _I’ve_ been talking to her, and she’s cool. She’s like, a hotter, better version of herself.”

“How is she hotter?” Rachel asks, before she can stop herself.

“Because she’s not eighteen anymore, and you really need to update your spank bank fantasies,” Santana says.

“Hey, I don’t...” she trails off, then flushes, because, well, it would be a blatant lie, and Santana knows it.

“So, what did you say when she called?” Santana asks.

“She messaged me on Facebook, actually,” Rachel says.

“And?”

“Nothing?” Rachel says, like, _duh_. “I called _you_.”

“You ghosted her?” Santana demands.

“No!” Rachel stammers. “I-I’m going to message her!”

“Then do it,” Santana says. “Just say, like, ‘Yeah, I’d love to.’”

“So... be honest?” Rachel asks.

“Okay, sure, Berry,” Santana says. Then, “Call me later, but not before Quinn replies back. Bye!”

She hangs up, the way she ends all of their calls, and Rachel rolls her eyes before clicking back to Facebook messenger.

 **Quinn Fabray  
**Active 2hr ago

 **8:07 PM:** _Hey! I didn’t know you lived  
_ _in Santa Cruz. I’d love to catch up.  
_ **[D]**

Almost immediately, Quinn comes online.

“Shit shit shit shit shit,” Rachel mutters, immediately swiping to her main messages page so she can see when Quinn has replied without reading it.

She rolls her eyes at herself the way she knows Santana would, but she can’t help the fact that texting Quinn Fabray has apparently sent her back to high school. Her feelings are confirmed by the absolute mess of nerves that unravel in her stomach at the new message notification.

 **Quinn Fabray  
**Active 2min ago

 **8:08 PM:** _I’m actually just visiting,  
_ _but I’ll be here until the new year,  
maybe longer. _

**8:10 PM:** _Oh? Visiting for work, or?  
_**[R]**

 **8:13 PM:** _How about I save that story  
for when I see you? ;)  
_**8:14 PM:** _I’ll send you a time and place  
closer to your move. I’m sure you have  
a ton going on right now, I wouldn’t  
want to be a distraction!_

 **8:15 PM:** _No, not a distraction.  
If at all, a welcome one.  
_**[R]**

 **8:17 PM:** _I appreciate that.  
You’ve been looking well, and  
I hope you’ve been doing well also. _

**8:21 PM:** _I’d say you too, but you have  
__literally zero pictures of yourself on  
your Facebook. Promise you’re not secretly  
a murderer posing as my friend?  
_**[D]**

It then occurs to Rachel she has no idea what Quinn even does anymore. She knows it’s not musical theater related, and is hoping it’s not _actually_ homicide, but all she’s aware of is the fact that Quinn went to Yale. Beyond that, it’s anyone’s guess.

She falls asleep dreaming about the mystery that has always been Quinn Fabray, and wakes up to a new message.

 **Quinn Fabray  
**Active 57min ago

 **7:03 AM:** _I promise :)  
_ **7:04 AM:** _Good luck with the move,  
_ _and I’ll be in touch._

It turns out Rachel needs quite a lot of luck because she has to find a new place to live twice. First, her spot gets given to someone else for a reason they won’t tell her, then the landlord changes her mind, but finally, she settles on a remodeled beach house for rent.

After that, she’s left to pack everything up on her own because Santana has to rush Brittany to the hospital for appendicitis, then has to nurse her at home, and the amount of paperwork required to move to a new state is absolutely ridiculous

Two weeks go by, and nothing from Quinn.

Rachel tries not to feel disappointed.

Realistically, she knows if it were the other way around, she wouldn’t want to bother the other woman either, but the closer she gets to the date of the move itself, the more she wonders whether Quinn actually just changed her mind.

The two days leading up to the big day, she documents on Facebook extremely excessively, trying to subtly drop a hint to Quinn that she can text her again. The comment, _Rachel, nobody cares about how you’re packing up your spices_ from Kurt forces her to stop, but the message finally comes. 

**Quinn Fabray  
**Active now

 **11:48 PM:** _1522 Pacific Avenue, Santa Cruz.  
Sound okay? _

**11:52 PM:** _Perfect. What time? Day?  
_ **[R]**

 **11:52 PM:** _You’re the one that’ll be busy  
moving, so you tell me._

 **11:56 PM:** _Tuesday at one?  
_**[R]**

 **11:58 PM:** _I look forward to it._

Does Rachel continue freaking out a little bit? Yes. Does she accidentally yell at the movers because she’s so stressed about seeing Quinn again? Maybe. Does she tip extra as an apology? Of course.

After remembering just how long it takes to get from New York to California, she starts regretting her choice to literally drive across the country in a U-Haul instead of flying and shipping everything, but the trip proves to be useful.

Sort of. Depends on the definition of ‘useful.’

To Rachel, it means spending three hours rehearsing how she’s going to greet Quinn. She wants to come off across as casual, but put together, but fun, but professional, and maybe a little bougie. How she plans to get all those implications across in a few words, she isn’t sure, but she’s pretty sure she succeeds at none of them.

Instead, she sucks in a breath as Quinn walks through the door, and is choking on her own spit when Quinn smiles and says, “Rachel. You okay?”

“Yeah,” she wheezes. “Sorry. It’s good to see you.”

“And you,” Quinn says. She takes a seat across from her. Notably, they don’t hug.

“You look good,” Rachel says, then flushes.

It’s true, though. Quinn has let her hair grow out, but instead of pinning it back in the youthful schoolgirl way she used to, it parts in the middle and falls effortlessly down her shoulders and back in slight waves. Her face has matured, but her makeup remains minimal, and there’s a familiar smirk in her lips that makes Rachel’s heart flutter and stomach drop.

“You’ve grown a lot,” is all Quinn says. Then it’s her turn to blush. 

“Nearly eight years will do that person,” she agrees.

“God, has it really been that long?” Quinn says. She flips open her menu, but then looks up, and there’s a twinkle in her eye, like she’s about to tell Rachel a secret. “You know, I actually come here every weekend.”

“It’s that good?” Rachel asks.

Quinn nods. “Better.” A less than subtle tilt of Rachel’s head makes Quinn arch an eyebrow, and Rachel marvels at how much that bitchy cheerleader vibe really works for her. “What?”

“You sound different,” Rachel says. “I mean, kind of.”

“That would be the two broken noses and three years in London,” Quinn says with a little laugh that sends Rachel’s heart straight back to McKinley.

“Been there,” Rachel says. “Well, the nose, not the London.”

“I remember that,” Quinn says. Her gaze drifts past Rachel’s head. “We sang a song in Glee Club about the whole thing.”

“We did,” Rachel says. “It’s still one of my favorites.”

“Mine, too,” Quinn says.

They smile at each other for just a little too long, and Rachel knows there’s a redness settling in her cheeks when she turns her attention back to the menu. It’s useless, of course, because she’s become momentarily illiterate. Every nerve in her body is on edge with the knowledge that Quinn is right in front of her again, so she just closes it and says, “Order for me?”

“Still vegan?” Quinn asks.

Rachel shakes her head. “I can’t believe you remember, but no.”

“I probably wouldn’t have, but Finn freaked out to me for an hour once because he accidentally fed you real steak one time,” Quinn says. The horrified look on Rachel’s face must be pretty apparent, because she cringes. “Oops. I’m guessing you didn’t know that.”

“I always said that steak was too good to be true,” she mutters.

Quinn laughs, a delicate sound that rings deliciously in Rachel’s ears, and places their order to the waiter who actually greets Quinn by name. Then it’s just the two of them again. “Santa Cruz, huh?”

“Yeah,” Rachel says. “Not forever, just for this TV show.”

“Anything you can tell me?” Quinn asks.

“I can’t tell you the name, but my character is the little sister of this woman who has to carry on the family name and kill demons, or something. I don’t fully understand that part yet,” she admits. “Anyway, so, I’m the little sister, and I help out and fall in love with this cop, who then, of course, gets in on the demon action.”

“You’re a long way from Broadway,” Quinn notes.

“I figured I could use a change,” Rachel shrugs. “What about you? Will you finally tell me why you’re here?”

“It’s not that much of a secret; I hyped it up,” Quinn says. Her eyes light up at the sight of the food being delivered to them. “Really, I just needed a break from work. My sister has a beach house up here, so I came to stay for... indefinitely.”

“‘For indefinitely’?” Rachel laughs a little. “Very specific.”

“Sam said if I put an end date on, it would never really feel like a break,” Quinn says. “I guess he was right, so I’m here until I feel like going back.”

Rachel is wondering how she can afford that, but the more pressing question comes first. She takes a bite of her salad, and tries to feign nonchalance as she asks, “You still talk to Sam?”

“Yeah, mostly just him, but some of the other Glee kids, too,” Quinn says. “I don’t really use social media, as you know, and really it just became about who put in the effort to actually text or call.”

“So, not me,” Rachel says.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Quinn says quickly. “I always figured you were busy, and --”

“No, I should have,” Rachel says. She can’t bring herself to meet Quinn’s eyes, but she allows herself to flicker her gaze up and down. “I mean, we were friends. You even got me that train ticket. I actually still have it.”

“It’s expired,” Quinn says.

“I know,” Rachel says, “but it was my reminder to reach out. I just always forgot, and I’m sorry.”

“We’re here now, right?” Quinn says. “When do you start shooting? How long do I have before Hollywood steals you away from me?”

“Nothing could steal me from you,” Rachel says, and then, before her words can catch up to either of them, she quickly continues, “I have a few months, actually. I wanted to get settled and have a little break, too. You want to see me again?”

“If you’re interested,” Quinn says. Her eyes are curiously vulnerable in a way Rachel has never seen before.

“Of course,” she says immediately. “Yeah, of course.”

There’s a short silence as they eat, and Rachel finds herself studying Quinn the way she always used to during Glee Club. From the way her mouth moves, to the way her eyelids flutter up and down, or the random tics here and there, Quinn is no less fascinating than she was the last time they saw each other.

And, Santana is unfortunately right; Quinn is much, much hotter.

Rachel’s eyes are lingering on Quinn’s lips for far too long, when Quinn brightens and snaps her eyes up, forcing Rachel’s to widen and move to meet hers. She exhales a sigh of relief when she realizes Quinn hasn’t noticed where she was staring, and lets out a nervous chuckle. “What?”

“I have a surprise,” Quinn announces. She fumbles around in her purse for a few seconds, then proudly produces two wrinkled pieces of paper. They’re oddly familiar. “Our bucket lists.”

“From Glee?” Rachel laughs. Then her stomach drops. “You didn’t read mine, did you?”

“No, you folded it up really weirdly, and I figured it was because you didn’t want anyone to see it,” Quinn says, handing hers over.

“Hm,” is all she says. The paper is worn, but Rachel carefully unfolds it anyway. She very blatantly refuses to let her eyes read the very last item on her list, and just looks up. “This is super cool, thank you.”

“I found them in my senior year yearbook, for some reason,” Quinn laughs. “Simpler times, huh?”

Rachel thinks back to the inner turmoil that was the senior year she spent actually consciously in love with Quinn, and shrugs. “Not for me.” She doesn’t let her answer dwell in the air too long, and says, “Why don’t we do them?”

“What?” Quinn asks.

“Our bucket lists,” Rachel says. “We both have a few months with no responsibilities. Let’s do our senior year bucket lists.”

“I mean, yeah, why not?” Quinn says.

“First thing on mine,” Rachel says, “figure out what Quinn Fabray is going to be doing for work in seven years' time.”

“Oh, right,” Quinn says. She tucks a lock of hair behind her ears. “I’m actually a lawyer now.”

Though she’s willing herself to keep it cool, her brain takes her to a different place, and she starts imagining Quinn’s lawyer outfits. A suit, no doubt. Hair professional with not a strand out of place, not unlike her cheerleading ponytail. Makeup similar to today, but perhaps she’d add a slightly edgier eyeshadow. The same smirk. The same piercing eyes. The same commanding voice.

Fuck. Current Quinn is _definitely_ hotter.

She’s also definitely out to kill her, because the first thing on her bucket list is a long ass hike. Like, twelve miles long.

“The full thing is thirty,” Quinn says. “But that would be a multi-day thing, and I don’t have a backpacking backpack.”

“Yeah, _that’s_ the issue,” Rachel scoffs. They’re about 0.1 miles from the start of the trailhead, and she’s already tired.

“What, not a fan of the outdoors?” Quinn teases.

“Not really,” Rachel says. “I like being outside, but a twelve mile hike in the mountains is my worst nightmare. What if I fall and break my voice?”

“You haven’t changed one bit,” Quinn says, shaking her head.

“Oh, thank God, I have,” Rachel says. “I know, I know, I was insufferable.”

Quinn makes a face like, _Well, yeah_ , and ducks out of the way as Rachel hits her with her hat. “Hey, you said it, not me. But enlighten me, Berry. In what ways have you changed?”

“I’m gay now,” Rachel says, before she can stop herself. She flushes a bright red. “I mean, I guess I always was.”

“Me too,” Quinn says, and Rachel’s world just about stops.

“I’m sorry, what?” Rachel says. Her feet won’t move. “What?”

Quinn furrows her eyebrows in amusement, and nods at her to keep walking. “You seem so surprised.”

“Because I _am_ ,” she says, and then thinks, _and maybe a little hopeful, but you don’t have to know that._

“Come on,” Quinn says, “the only boy I ever dated that I actually seemed to like was Sam. Puck ended up more like a brother, which, I know, _gross_ , so don’t think about it, and dating Finn was like dating an idea, not a real person.”

“That’s what Santana always says about my male rebounds,” Rachel says, rolling her eyes.

“You talk to Santana?” Quinn asks.

Rachel kicks at a rock lightly. “yeah, we’re actually really close now.”

“That’s awesome,” Quinn says, and the smile on her lips is genuine. “So, why the rebounds? Bad breakup?”

“Is it a breakup if you never dated?” Rachel asks, cringing at herself.

“I ask myself the same thing,” Quinn laughs.

Rachel wants to say something about that, though she’s not sure exactly what, but then Quinn is picking up the pace, and the trail curves up, and she decides she’s done enough talking for the time being. In fact, they don’t speak at all until they get to the halfway mark, which should be awkward, but is oddly comforting.

Rachel actually starts to enjoy the nature, though she’d never admit it. Listening to Quinn breathe, watching her take in the sights and sounds, and just existing with her takes her back to all those high school fantasies about the effortlessly casual nights they’d have together, if by some miracle they ended up dating.

They stop about five miles in for lunch, and Rachel groans in satisfaction as she finally sits down against a rock. Quinn’s cheeks are slightly flushed as she settles down next to her, and her eyes are dancing as she says, “See? I told you it would be great.”

“So why didn’t you ever do this in high school?” Rachel asks, accepting a sandwich from Quinn’s backpack and passing her a banana in return.

“I just never really got a chance to,” Quinn says thoughtfully. “I was so busy being, well, ‘Quinn Fabray,’ and then I was pregnant, and then I was depressed, and then I was paralyzed.”

“Oh, right,” Rachel says.

Quinn chuckles, and takes a sip from her water bottle. “I’ve always loved the idea of hiking, though. Not just one hour things every so often, but real, long hikes. Backpacking even. Exercising because you actually enjoy it, being in nature.”

She lets out a breath, and Rachel can’t help but notice how genuinely relaxed she seems. Even when Quinn let her guard down in Glee Club, she was always holding back. Not anymore, apparently. Confident and carefree looks good on her. 

“Well, I like that you like it,” Rachel decides.

Rachel spends the rest of their makeshift meal time in a daze. She isn’t sure exactly what Quinn says, nor is she conscious about her own words, though she feels herself speaking. Being so close to Quinn for so long is intoxicating in the best way possible.

“Ready?” Quinn hops up and extends her hand with a smile. Rachel wants to say, _Absolutely not_ , but then Quinn peels off her t-shirt, and suddenly she finds she has a lot more energy in her than she thought.

/

“So, was I right, or was I right?” is the first thing Santana says when she picks up the phone.

“You were right,” Rachel sighs. “She’s just amazing.”

“I can’t believe you willingly went on a twelve mile hike,” Santana says. “Quinn must be even hotter than I remember.”

“She is,” Rachel says without thinking. Knowing that Santana is probably laughing at her, she doubles back with, “I mean, of course she’s even more attractive now. You know she’s a lawyer?”

“I bet she looks great in a suit,” Santana says.

“That’s what I was thinking,” Rachel agrees. “But seriously, she’s so happy. Like, genuinely just really comfortable and content with life. I’m so used to picturing her walking around with the weight of the world on her shoulders.”

“You know, looking back on it, I suppose being pregnant and then suddenly paralyzed didn’t make for a great high school experience,” Santana muses. “But back to the important stuff; you’re less annoying, and she’s a less internally oppressed version of herself. Are you going to go for it?”

“Go for what?” Rachel says dumbly.

“I’m rolling my eyes, Berry.”

“Look, I know I keep saying how hot she is now --”

“-- yes, you want to do sinful, sinful things, I _know_ \--”

“-- but I actually think I’d be content just being her friend,” Rachel says. Santana just makes a vaguely unimpressed noise. “She’s actually gay, though.”

“I know,” Santana says.

“What?” Rachel sputters. “And you never told me?”

“I thought you knew,” Santana says. She shuffles on the other line for a second, and then continues, “The one thing closet lesbians are good at it is spotting other closeted lesbians.”

“If she’s into me, which she isn’t, great. If not, I get to be her friend,” Rachel shrugs. “It’s a win-win.”

“So what’s next on your weird bucket list adventure?” Santana asks.

“Don't make fun, I think it’s cute,” Rachel says. She pauses. “A botanical garden, actually.”

“That’s a thing?”

“Not in Ohio,” Rachel says.

There’s one in San Francisco, however, and Quinn agrees to drive because it’s about two hours North with traffic, and will be cheaper in terms of gas if she does. She doesn’t say _why_ , until she pulls up in front of Rachel’s new house, windows down.

Her jaw drops. “You have a _Tesla_?”

“Like I said, cheaper on gas,” Quinn says with a shrug. She leans over the center console. “Coming?”

Rachel practically throws herself down the porch steps to get to the car, and tries not to show how utterly obsessed she is. “I can’t believe you have a Tesla.”

“It’s a California thing,” Quinn says. “If you head more a little North over to Silicon Valley, they’re everywhere.”

“So, lawyer-ing pays a lot, I assume,” Rachel says.

“Can’t be more than a Netflix Original,” Quinn teases. “But, yes, I managed to get some pretty high end clients, and it pays well.”

“We’re going to talk more about that later,” Rachel says as they head into the curves of Highway 17, “but first, I need to look out the window and be quiet before I get car sick and throw up in your Tesla.”

“Please do not,” Quinn says. She switches on the radio, and lets it play softly in the background. She’s humming along to, ‘Can’t Stop Loving You’ by Phil Collins, and Rachel can’t help but wonder why she stopped pursuing singing.

She asks her as much when they finally start walking around the San Francisco Botanical Garden, which is even more gorgeous than the pictures. “When did you switch to law?”

“After a year,” Quinn says. She lets her fingers dance lightly over some lamb’s ear plants. “Singing, dancing, all that is fun, don’t get me wrong, but it’s just more of a hobby to me. It’s not a passion. Helping people? _That’s_ a passion.”

“So what _do_ you do?” Rachel asks.

“I started off representing athletes,” Quinn says, and Rachel can’t help but raise her eyebrows at that. “I know, not super crazy. But eventually I moved up higher and higher, and now I’m representing the United States Women’s National Soccer Team in their fight for equal pay.”

“Oh?”

“You know, the men make, like fifty grand for _losing_ a game, while the women don’t get anything, even though they essentially have to give up a month at a time to train with the team at camps before the games,” Quinn says, shaking her head. “Some women in countries with even less established women’s leagues have to have second jobs because they make the same amount as a high schooler might on an after school minimum wage job.”

“So it’s not just the US, then?” Rachel guesses.

Quinn shakes her head. “No. The case I’m on now, yes, but it’s about changing the culture, too.” She opens her mouth as if to say something else, but her face splits into a grin, and she shakes her head at herself. “This is why I’m taking a break.”

“Need to get that work and personal life split?” Rachel laughs.

“Maybe by the time I’m fifty,” Quinn chuckles. “It just means a lot to me.”

“It should,” Rachel says. “But maybe let’s not talk about your job.”

“Sounds good to me,” Quinn says, and then smirks. “So, let’s talk about _you_ then.”

“Me?” Rachel all but squeaks out. “Why?”

“Why’d you leave Broadway?” Quinn asks.

Rachel lets out a breath, and looks past Quinn at the rows and rows of flowers. She stalls for time as much as she can, and shoves her hands in her coat pockets. “I didn’t even plan on it. Broadway was my _dream_. But then I got offered an audition for the show, and I was like, ‘well, why not?’ I never thought they’d actually cast me.”

“It’s not a musical, either,” Quinn notes.

“No,” Rachel agrees. “It’s completely different. But, here’s the thing about Broadway; do I love it? Yes. Will I be blasting show tunes until the day I die? Yes, sorry. But it’s... stagnant. I want to use media and the arts to change the world, change people’s perspectives and ideas. I’m sure I’ll return to the stage eventually, but the dynamic and abilities of the screen is just so interesting right now.”

“Well, I look forward to watching your TV show,” Quinn says. She leans forward to sniff at some lavender, and there’s a delighted look on her face when she pulls back. “I’ll probably like it more than I liked Les Mis.”

“You saw that?” Rachel demands. “What?”

“I was visiting Sam, and he suggested we see a show,” Quinn says with a shrug. “You were good, it was just so... sad.”

“That’s one word for it,” Rachel laughs. Her heart won’t stop pounding, and every inch of her body is on fire knowing Quinn watched her perform on Broadway, and she was on stage having no idea. “Why didn’t you say hi after?”

“I don’t know,” Quinn says, pointedly focused on the plants. “Really, I don’t. I don’t think Sam knew we’d lost touch, so he didn’t think it was a big deal, and then we had a dinner reservation to get to, and then I was leaving.”

“Huh.”

“Are you mad?”

“Why would I be mad?” Rachel asks, but her laugh dies in her throat at the unadulterated concern covering Quinn’s eyes. “No, I’m not. I’m kind of glad you got to see me, actually.”

“Me, too,” Quinn says.

They walk in silence through the endless rows of flowers, and Rachel lets her heart calm down and beat to the sound of their feet on the cobblestone paths. She pauses at the fork in the garden, and reaches out to touch the flower in front of her gently. “This is my favorite.”

“‘Gardenia,’” Quinn reads off the placard. Rachel doesn’t say anything, and just allows herself to watch Quinn’s face as it moves through practically every stage of grief there is. It’s almost comical. Then, realization. “The prom corsage from Finn. It was a gardenia.”

“It was,” Rachel agrees. “With a light green ribbon to match your eyes.”

“Yeah.” Quinn’s voice is soft, and her expression is impassive. Her ability to completely close off her emotions from her outward appearance is still there, apparently.

“Do you know what they mean?” Rachel asks. She holds her breath, and can’t look at Quinn’s face anymore.

“No,” Quinn says, and if Rachel thinks she might be lying, she doesn’t say anything.

/

Two days later, she’s standing on the beach with Quinn, close enough to touch, but far enough that she doesn’t dare take the initiative. The moon is high in the sky, and though it’s on the waning side of half, it gives them just enough light to see the waves.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Rachel says.

“Well, you’re not, yet,” Quinn says. She turns her head slightly, and shrugs into a smile. Her youthful innocence is back, but there’s something so mature about the way she confidently nods her head towards the water.

It had been two days prior in the driveway of Rachel’s house that Quinn had announced the second thing on her bucket list.

“Skinny dipping?” Rachel had said.

“In the ocean,” Quinn had confirmed.

“Jesus Christ, you’re insane.” Rachel exhaled a breath, and slumped back into the seat, willing her brain not to take her to the juvenile thought of _skinny dipping means being naked_. “I’m pretty sure that’s illegal. Public indecency ring a bell?”

“We’ll have to do it at night, obviously,” Quinn had said.

“Right, obviously,” Rachel muttered.

She’d meant to say no, she really had, but then Quinn had said, “Please?” in a softer voice than Rachel had ever heard her use, and then she’d looked into her eyes, which were alive with just the notion of the adrenaline, and she couldn’t help breathing out the word, “Okay.”

So, the beach it is.

It’s midnight, according to Rachel’s phone, and she slips it into the shoes she’s discarded already. Under her toes, the sand is in that partly damp, partly dry stage, and it crumbles nicely under her feet as she shifts her weight around. It’s cold, though, and she’s actually wondering whether they’re at real risk of hypothermia, when Quinn takes two steps forward, looks back, winks, and then says, “Now or never, Berry.”

Rachel just watches as Quinn continues towards the water, shedding clothing as she goes. She walks like she wants to be seen, so Rachel lets her gaze linger as smooth, pale skin is exposed little by little.

Quinn’s shirt is torn off, revealing back muscles that flex and contract as she strips off her bra. Then, she slides out of her skinny jeans in a manner so graceful that Rachel is too impressed to feel suggestive about it. The feeling quickly returns, however, when Quinn’s lacy underwear slides off, and the blonde continues into the water, not even pausing when the waves begin to lap at her.

Rachel tears her eyes away from Quinn’s ass, and strips as quickly as she can because she knows Quinn is going to turn around soon, and she’d rather be caught dead than have Quinn observe her much less elegant way of hauling herself out of skinny jeans.

Her body is alight with want so hazy it feels almost teenager-ish, but the ocean soon fixes that.

“Fuck, it’s cold,” Rachel gasps, sinking into the waves.

Quinn turns, and there’s a grin on her face as she sucks in a breath and lets herself drop below the surface. She pops up after a few seconds, and blinks her eyes open. “Not bad.”

“Show-off,” Rachel mutters.

“Says you,” Quinn laughs.

“You know what movie I watched last night?” Rachel asks.

Quinn leads them out further from the shore, and hums, “What?”

“Jaws.”

“Okay, Berry,” she says, and though she rolls her eyes, Rachel knows she’s smiling.

“Seriously, though, I hate sharks. If _anything_ touches me, I’m bailing on you,” Rachel says.

Quinn chuckles and spreads her fingers through the water, and is about to say something, when an expression identifiable only as sheer panic slams onto her face. “Um.”

“What?” Rachel demands, feeling her heart rate increase by about a thousand beats per minute.

“Oh, my God, I just felt...” she trails off, and squeezes her eyes shut. “Berry. Oh, my God. We’re going to die. I swear I just felt a fin brush me.”

“A fin?” Rachel practically screams. “Like, a shark fin?”

“No, a Hudson Finn,” Quinn says, rolling her eyes. “ _Yes_ , a shark fin. Is it better or worse to swim away?”

“Um, I don’t know,” Rachel stammers. “I make a point not to be in a situation where I’d have to figure that out. Um, I think we’re supposed to be small? Or, no we spread out. No, then we’ll look like seals. Fuck, I don’t know!”

And then Quinn’s face splits into a shit-eating grin. “Gotcha!”

“Fuck _you_ ,” Rachel says, though the relief she feels over the fact that she is _not_ in imminent danger is overwhelming, and she starts laughing.

“Pretty good, right?” Quinn says, looking way too proud of herself.

“Remind me again why you didn’t pursue acting?” Rachel says, only half-joking

“That’s all you, Berry,” Quinn says, and before Rachel can press the matter any further, Quinn flips herself more horizontal, and begins free style stroking further into the water.

Against her better judgement, Rachel follows. She hasn’t swum in God knows how long, and battling the current is surprisingly difficult. Still, watching Quinn swim and splash and float around like it’s effortless gives her a boost of energy she didn’t know she needed.

The water warms under her skin, and though she knows it’ll be hell to reveal herself to the air again, she enjoys the smoothness while she can. The moon is bright enough for them to see each other, but leaves much to be imagined as Rachel tries to put together the sights before her.

Quinn lifts both arms up to slick her hair back, and Rachel is wondering how on Earth she’s still floating. The thought is lost as quickly as it comes, because the way the moon reflects off of Quinn’s hair and falls down the contours of her face, shoulders, and collarbone seems to make her glow, and it takes Rachel’s breath away.

Then the blonde is sighing and splashing at Rachel, and any hint of warmth in Rachel’s belly dies, because the moment isn’t sensual in the slightest. It’s innocent and careful and carefree in a way Rachel has never seen before.

There were moments of course, mostly during performances or group hangouts when Quinn was tired enough to let her guard down, but even then, it was never like this. There was always a sense of control and fear. No matter how many walls Quinn let down, there were always more to go.

But, here, swimming in the Pacific Ocean at midnight, she feels like Quinn is finally allowing her to see her for real.

The realization she’s been staring for the past ten minutes seems to hit her at the same moment it hits Quinn, because the blonde tilts her head to one side. “What?”

“Nothing,” Rachel says automatically, but then offers her a smile. “You look happy.”

“I am,” Quinn says, and she seems to understand Rachel isn’t just talking about that exact moment. “I’m happy in a way I never knew was even possible.”

“It’s _all_ possible,” Rachel says. Her words are too heavy for the moment, and the air is thick as she backtracks. “But, you know, I’m happy you’re happy. You deserve a life like this.”

Quinn is silent, and she’s hoping to God she didn’t ruin the moment, but then Quinn lets her mouth turn up into a shy smile. “Thank you, Rachel. Seriously. I -- I would hug you, but, you know. No clothes.”

“I don’t mind,” Rachel blurts out. She feels heat creep up her neck, as she screams at herself, _Why the fuck would you say that?_ but she clamps her mouth shut because she figures releasing the word vomit of cover-up sentences would just make the moment worse.

Quinn just laughs, but her eyes are dark as she pins Rachel down with a pointed gaze and says, “I don’t think you could handle that yet.”

/

“She’s flirting with you,” Santana says matter-of-factly the day after.

“What? I don’t think so,” Rachel says. “Really?”

“Berry, if you’re accurately giving me this information, that is just about the gayest thing she’s ever said. ‘I don’t think you could handle that yet.’ Really?” Santana says. “Flirting.”

/

 **Quinn Fabray  
**Active now

 **11:27 AM:** _I’m sick, and it’s your fault.  
_ **[R]**

 **11:28 AM:** _How’s that?_

 **11:30 AM:** _Submerging ourselves in the  
Pacific Ocean at midnight for a  
full hour was your idea, was it not?  
_**[R]**

 **11:31 AM:** _I suppose so. Sorry about that.  
If it makes you feel better, I’m sick too. _

**11:33 AM:** _Unfortunately, it does not.  
Sorry you’re not feeling well either.  
I wish Santana were here to make me soup.  
_ **[R]**

 **11:37 AM:** _Santana can cook?  
And Mac n cheese doesn’t count.  
_**11:37 AM:** _Ps. if I stop replying, it’s  
because I took too much nyquil  
and fell asleep._

 **11:38 AM:** _Believe it or not,  
she’s actually a great chef nowadays.  
_**[R]**

 **11: 43 AM:** _I’ll have to taste it before I believe it._

 **11: 44 AM:** _So, I’m assuming no  
bucket list extravaganza today?  
_**[R]**

 **11:46 AM:** _I’m afraid not._

 **11:46 AM:** _Is it weird that I’m actually  
sad about that?  
_**11:47 AM:** _Like, we’ve only been hanging out  
for a few weeks now, and it’s been almost  
every day, but I think I’ll miss you today.  
**[R]**  
_

**11:56 AM:** _Not weird at all.  
__I’ll miss you, too. Get better soon  
so we can hang out again, okay?  
Drink some tea or something._

 **11:58 AM:** _Will do. Let me know  
if I can bring you anything.  
_**[R]**

 **12:01 PM:** _I think if anything,  
I should be bringing YOU something._

 **12:02 PM:** _Better keep your distance so  
we don’t keep infecting each other back and forth.  
_ **[R]**

 **12:04 PM:** _Not how it works, Berry,  
but, you’re right. We really just need to rest._

 **12:06 PM:** _Good thing I have a full season  
of Brooklyn 99 to catch up on.  
_**[D]**

Rachel sighs and lets her phone flop onto the bed beside her.

It’s ridiculous how much she actually misses Quinn; she’s gone seven years without seeing her, it won’t kill her to take a day or two apart. She has half a mind to put together a soup and surprise Quinn with it, but she really does feel like shit, so she resigns herself to a day of Brooklyn 99 and napping.

Halfway through the fifth episode, she feels the exhaustion that comes with being sick catching up to her, so she closes her laptop and lets her eyes drift shut. She intends for it to be a power nap, but when she wakes up, it’s pitch black and oddly disorienting.

Her hands splay out against the sheets, and Rachel fumbles around until her hands close around the cold glass of her phone. The screen is way too bright, and she has to squint to read anything, but she immediately clicks to Facebook messenger.

 **Quinn Fabray  
**Active 41min ago

 **6:13 PM:** _God, I just slept for so long.  
I’ve never seen that show. Any good?_

 **8:31 PM:** _I literally just woke up.  
On the bright side, I feel a lot better.  
_**8:32 PM:** _Brookyln 99 is the best show ever.  
Please watch it.  
**[D]**  
_

/

When they finally start to feel recovered, Quinn picks up the phone and asks, “So, what’s next on your bucket list?”

“Don’t laugh,” Rachel says, already rolling her eyes at herself.

“Never,” Quinn says. “Tell me.”

“I wrote that I wanted to pull an all-nighter,” Rachel says.

“That’s cute,” Quinn says. “Though, really? Never?”

“Not in high school,” Rachel admits. “I had this ridiculous two hour night routine.”

“Don’t tell me you did those Korean skin care things?” Quinn says. Silence. “Oh, my God, Berry.”

“Well, anyway, I don’t anymore, but, yeah, at the time I knew I needed to have the energy to actually do the routine, so I always went to bed at, like, ten,” Rachel says. “I’ve done an all-nighter since then, of course. I guess we don’t need to do it now.”

“No, we definitely do,” Quinn says. “Tomorrow? I’ll cook dinner. We can watch that TV show you’ve mentioned at least ten times already.”

“It’s a -- plan,” Rachel says, stuttering over the word ‘date’ and into an acceptable alternative.

Quinn arrives with a shopping bag full of food, a smile on her lips, and a hug. It isn’t the first time they’ve hugged since meeting up again, but the way it happens with such ease makes Rachel happier than she knows it should.

“You’re my first guest in this house,” she says, showing Quinn into the kitchen.

“Hope I don’t disappoint,” Quinn says.

“Never,” she echoes Quinn’s word from the phone. “So, what’d you bring?”

The blonde sets the bag down and begins removing ingredients. “Well, first, most importantly, I have wine.”

“Red?” 

“Of course,” Quinn says, amusement lacing her words. “Then, I thought I’d make pasta and salad. Super basic, I know.”

“I love pasta,” Rachel says, peering into the bag. “Also, brownies, I love brownies.”

“Right, I bought a mix, too,” she says. She tosses the box to her. “Wanna go ahead with that?”

Rachel grabs a mixing bowl, a wooden spoon, and the glass 13x13 baking dish her dads had forced her to take with her. They work in silence for a few minutes, until Rachel’s eyes settle on the speaker she has in the kitchen. “Any interest in listening to music? Ask Google to play anything.”

Quinn brightens. “Hey, Google. Play This is: Fleetwood Mac.”

“ _Okay, playing This is: Fleetwood Mac on Spotify.”_

“Hey, Google, shuffle.”

“ _Okay, music will begin shuffling after this track.”_

‘Dreams’ begins flowing through the kitchen, and Rachel can’t help but smile. “Fleetwood Mac? Mr. Schuester sure rubbed off on you.”

“You can’t say it like that,” Quinn says, shaking her head. “I don’t want to hear about Mr. Schuester rubbing off on me. He was creepy enough as it is.”

“Huh?” Rachel laughs for real this time. “I’m sorry, elaborate please.”

“You know he blackmailed Finn into joining Glee Club by pretending he found drugs in his locker?” Quinn says. Her hands are slicing onions in smooth, practiced motions, and Rachel is almost lost in a trance of watching until the words catch up to her.

“He did _what_?” The egg in her hand slips through her fingers and cracks on the counter. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope,” Quinn says, popping the ‘p’. “And once we sang ‘Bust a Move’ and when the line ‘ _a chick walks up, you wish you could sex her_ ’ came on, he pointed at me.”

 _I mean, same,_ Rachel thinks, and then, _Gross_. She wrinkles her nose. “Well, that’s horrifying.”

Quinn giggles until it erupts into the big, open laugh she does. The one that only comes out when she’s really comfortable. Rachel heard it a total of twice in high school, but she’s come to realize it’s something Quinn has been doing more and more.

“What’s Brooklyn Nine-nine about?” Quinn asks, scooping up the onions with the flat of her knife and depositing them into a saucepan. They sizzle and hiss upon contact, and Quinn cringes, turning the flame down a little.

“It’s kind of like the Office, but actually funny, and with cops,” Rachel decides.

“You don’t like the Office?” Quinn says incredulously. She’s staring Rachel down in an all too familiar way, and, unfortunately, while the intense gaze used to make her nervous, now it kind of turns her on.

“Um, no?” Rachel says. She retrieves a new egg. “Please put the knife down.”

“I thought you had taste, Berry,” Quinn says, but turns her attention back to the stove.

“I _do_ ,” she whines. “It’s not my fault the Office is slow and boring.”

“You’re not making your recommendation seem that valid,” Quinn warns.

“I know you’ll like it,” Rachel says.

She’s right, of course.

Quinn smiles all through the first episode, and actually laughs into the second one, and after two servings of food, a quarter of the tray of brownie, and almost the whole bottle of wine, they’ve binged the entire first season.

“Fine, it’s good,” Quinn says, when Rachel flicks the TV off. She gives her a pointed look. “Don’t say it.

“I told you so,” Rachel says smugly. Quinn tosses a pillow at her, but she’s too drunk on wine and Quinn to even attempt to dodge it. It hits her square in the face. “I’m tired.”

“It’s not even midnight,” Quinn says. There’s a dopey smile on her face, one Rachel has only ever seen directed at Sam. “You sure you want to stay up all night?”

“I do,” Rachel says, _because if I don’t, you might leave, and I really want to keep talking to you._

“Alright, then we gotta figure out a way to wake you up,” Quinn declares.

“No more ocean skinny dipping,” Rachel says, and her breath hitches at the way Quinn giggles at her. “How are you so good at staying awake?”

“I’m a lawyer,” Quinn says, as if that’s reason enough. “I stayed up for seventy-two hours once.”

“No way,” Rachel says. “Can you tell me about the case? Or is that violating HIPPA or something?”

“HIPPA is medical,” Quinn says, shooting her an amused look. Her face sobers, and then she says, “But I can tell you about it. I’m sure you’ve already heard, actually; it was the sexual abuse case with those UCLA gymnasts.”

“Aly Raisman,” Rachel says, the name rolling off her tongue as if on instinct. Quinn nods. “You were on that? Damn.”

“Sort of,” Quinn says, shrugging. “I didn’t represent anything, but I helped out with a lot of research, and shadowed the process. I learned a lot, and it was so rewarding to get justice. Made me realize just how much bullshit goes on in the sports world.”

“Film and television is no different,” Rachel says. “I’m kind of nervous about that, to be honest.”

“Well, call me up any time, and I’d be happy to take down a Hollywood predator,” Quinn says.

“I’ll remember that,” Rachel says, and then she yawns. “God. I’m a grandma.”

“Let's go on a walk,” Quinn suggests. Her groan must not be as subtle as she thought, because Quinn rolls her eyes and says, “Come on, I promise you’re not as tired as you think you are. Going on a walk always wakes me up a little.”

“Fine,” Rachel says, though she huffs her way to her feet, and throws Quinn puppy dog eyes all through slipping on her shoes and grabbing a coat.

“Still as dramatic,” Quinn notes.

“Hopefully you think I’ve changed a bit since high school,” Rachel says. She means for it to be a joke, but there’s no smile on her lips or humor in her voice. It’s silent -- _too_ silent -- as she locks the door behind them.

The night is cold enough for them to see their breath as they walk, and seeing the streets completely empty is oddly comforting. Rachel allows herself to get lost in the sound of the surf rolling along the beaches just a few blocks down, but then realizes Quinn never replied.

Said girl -- no, woman now -- has her hands in her pockets, and her eyes are downcast. There’s a troubled expression etched into the lines of her forehead, and her lips purse every few seconds.

Rachel angles her body closer and nudges Quinn’s shoulder with her own. “Penny for your thoughts?”

“I didn’t dislike you in high school,” Quinn says, her voice small. She looks up from the ground, and there’s a candid earnesty in her eyes. “Even when I was being a total bitch to you.”

“I didn’t dislike you either,” Rachel says.

“Really?” Quinn looks utterly confused, and it’s adorable. “Why not?”

“Because, for one thing, you weren’t exactly wrong about the things you said,” Rachel admits. “You could have been a bit nicer with the delivery, but, yeah, I was obnoxious, selfish, and, for a lesbian, weirdly boy-obsessed.”

Quinn chuckles lightly, but the smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “It still doesn’t make what I said okay.”

“No, but I don’t hold it against you,” Rachel says. “Seriously. High school was a shitty time for everyone, especially you. I don’t think anyone ever really understood how hard what you went through was.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Quinn mumbles, and then flushes, like she accidentally said something she wasn’t supposed to. “Thank you, though. Really. It’s been eating away at me all these years. To be honest, I wondered if you didn’t reach out because you realized you hated me.”

“Not in the slightest,” Rachel says. She offers her a smile, and it widens when Quinn seems to accept it. “Water under the bridge. And I’m sorry I never tried messaging you sooner.”

“I’m glad you did,” Quinn says, and then frowns. “Actually, _I_ did, huh?”

“Yeah,” Rachel laughs, and then corrects, “I’m glad _you_ did.”

“Me, too,” Quinn says, and the smile on her lips tells Rachel more than Quinn would ever say.

They find themselves down at the water after about half an hour of walking. Rachel should have known they’d wind up there, because Quinn seems addicted to the ocean the same way Rachel is addicted to _her_.

“It’s peaceful at night,” Rachel says, lying against the sand. It’s still warm from the sun that day, and she sinks into it gratefully.

“Almost makes you want to go swimming?” Quinn tries hopefully.

“You wish,” Rachel mumbles, eyelids already fluttering closed.

“Hey, Berry, stay with me,” Quinn says, and then turns onto her side to reach out a hand.

“Hm?” she says, because there would absolutely be a shake in her voice if she spoke actual words. Quinn’s fingers trail down to her elbow, squeeze her gently, and then retract.

“Twenty questions,” Quinn says. “Wake up.”

“Hard or easy?” Rachel says, forcing her eyes open.

“Surprise me,” Quinn says, and they’re so close her breath brushes the tip of Rachel’s nose just slightly.

“When did you know you were gay?” Rachel asks, and then cringes a little.

“No need to start easy, Berry,” Quinn says, but there’s amusement lacing her tone. “When did I know, or when did I accept it? I knew in my sophomore year of high school. I accepted it during my first year at Yale.”

“That’s a lot of time to be struggling,” Rachel says quietly.

Quinn nods. “I tell people I slept with Puck because he got me drunk, and I felt fat, and it’s not a complete lie, but it’s not the whole story. That day, I felt truly romantic feelings for a girl, and it scared me so bad I let him get me drunk so I’d have the courage to go through with letting him have sex with me.”

“Who was the girl?” Rachel asks.

The sand rustles as Quinn shakes her head. “My turn. When did _you_ know you were gay?”

“Senior year,” Rachel says. “Though, looking back, I was crushing on this one girl for years before. Maybe even since freshman year, I don’t know.”

“Did you ever feel scared?” Quinn asks.

“Maybe, for myself, seeing what Kurt went through,” Rachel says, “but not in general. My parents are gay, as you know. I never felt any kind of shame about myself, just shame about the rest of the world.”

“You’re lucky,” Quinn says quietly. “My parents kicked me out when I got pregnant, but if they knew I was gay, my dad probably would have killed me.”

“You don’t mean that,” Rachel says, but she can’t bring herself to laugh because Quinn’s eyes are dark in a way she’s never seen before. “Right?”

“I’m not sure,” Quinn admits. “You know, I never called Kurt ‘Lady Hummel’ or any of that. Not that it counts for a lot, but --”

“I know,” Rachel says. They’re quiet for a bit, as Rachel searches Quinn’s eyes for something, though she isn’t sure what. She clears her throat. “I think it’s your turn to ask me something.”

“Favorite member of One Direction?” Quinn grins.

Rachel is so relieved to see the ease work its way back into Quinn’s posture, and she actually laughs out loud. “Harry, I think. You?”

“Niall, duh,” Quinn says.

“You always did go for the fellow blondes,” Rachel muses. “Niall, Sam.”

“Neither are naturally blonde, actually,” Quinn teases. Maybe Rachel is reading into things too much, maybe she’s just _really_ tired, but something tells her she’s missing an important message when Quinn says, “And brunettes are more my type.”

/

“So, what’s next on your list?” Rachel asks.

“Spend a day doing good deeds,” Quinn says reading off the beat up piece of binder paper pressed against Rachel’s kitchen counter.

“See?” Rachel says, putting the cream cheese and bagels Quinn had brought into the fridge. “You wrote that when you were in high school. Proof you were never as bad as you think you were.”

“I’ll spend my whole life trying to make up for it,” Quinn shrugs.

“Stop it.” Rachel crosses over to her, and, before she can slam the brakes on, her brain operates her on autopilot. She comes to rest in between Quinn’s slightly parted legs, and tangles their fingers together gently. “We will do this day of good deeds because it’s on your list and doing good things for people is fun. We will _not_ do it because you think you have to undo some kind of bad karma. Okay?”

“Since when do you care so much about me?” Quinn asks, looking down at their fingers.

Rachel squeezes her hand slightly. “Since sophomore year of high school.”

Quinn’s lips part in a silent ‘oh!’ and Rachel’s gaze flickers in between the furrow of Quinn’s eyebrows and the slight tremor in her lips. The air suddenly becomes way too thick to breathe, and she takes a step back before she does something dumb.

Quinn lets her hands fall back into her lap. “So, what’s a good deed we can do?”

“We could make and hand out care packages for homeless people,” Rachel suggests. “We can prep today, and do it tomorrow.”

“San Francisco?” Quinn asks.

“San Francisco,” Rachel agrees.

They spend the day shopping and prepping little bags with hand sanitizer, toothbrushes and toothpaste, gift cards to fast food restaurants, sunscreen, and small, reusable water bottles. Quinn insists on paying for everything, of course, and Rachel allows it on the condition that dinner is her treat.

The following morning, they venture up to San Francisco again, and hand out the packages to anyone on the street asking for money. It’s a lot, and Rachel can’t believe how far the city is willing to let its citizens go.

“It didn’t used to be like this,” Quinn says quietly. She’s not looking at Rachel, but at the sleeping form of a man huddled against the stoop of an abandoned shop. “I used to live here, when I was, like, seven. Just for a couple years, and then we went back to Ohio. California wasn’t bigoted enough for my father, I guess. But, anyway, the streets were cleaner, there weren’t nearly as many homeless people, and... I don’t know. It felt different.”

“I haven’t been here before,” Rachel says. “I don’t know it any other way.”

“Most people haven’t,” Quinn agrees. She tucks their last pack under the man’s limp arm, and covers him with the blanket that has fallen off in his sleep. “Hopefully this helps him at least a little.”

“It will,” Rachel says. She takes Quinn’s hand, and tugs her back towards the car. “We can’t fix this issue, but we can do what we can to make it a little better. Treat the symptoms if you can’t find a cure.”

“What?”

“My dad is a doctor,” Rachel says. She means to play it off as a joke, but Quinn looks genuinely interested, so she continues, “If you can’t solve an issue, you can make it a little easier to bear, right?”  
“I suppose so,” Quinn agrees. She clicks the key fob in her pocket, and the lights to her car flash as they approach. “God, I’m exhausted. Can you drive?”

“You’ll let me drive your Tesla?” Rachel asks incredulously.

Quinn lets go of her hand as she crosses to the passenger side, and Rachel tries not to miss the warmth. She laughs, “I mean, yeah. If I had known you wanted to, I would have let you a while ago.”

“What if I crash it?” Rachel asks.

“Please don’t?” Quinn suggests.

The car is really fucking smooth. Rachel doesn’t know what’s more attractive; the woman next to her, or the steering wheel beneath her hands. She can practically hear Santana say, _Ew, Berry, it’s definitely the girl_.

The radio takes them through the streets of San Francisco, and onto the 101, then onto I-80. By the time they’re halfway to where Rachel needs to turn onto the 85, Quinn is asleep.

She’s never seen her sleep before, she realizes. Quinn looks peaceful, soft, and so much like the scared teenager who walked into glee club without her Cheerios uniform for the first time.

Rachel thinks that’s the day she fell in love with her, as ridiculous as it is. That was the day she understood, for the first time, that Quinn wasn’t just the stereotype she’d cast herself in. Rachel’s sure she doesn’t even remember it, but that was the day she’d run into Quinn sitting at the piano and playing a slow, ballad version of the song ‘Papa Don’t Preach.’

_Papa, I know you’re going to be upset, ‘cause I was always your little girl. But you should know by now: I’m not a baby. You always taught me right from wrong, I need your help, daddy, please be strong. I may be young at heart, but I know what I’m saying. The one you warned me all about, the one you said I could do without; we’re in an awful mess, and I don’t mean maybe. Please._

The vulnerability in her voice, the softness in her eyes, and the way she saw Quinn get lost in the music in a manner she’d done herself so many times is something she knows she’ll never forget. The lyrics hit differently that day, but nothing compared to what she feels watching Quinn nearly ten years later.

Without a second thought, she plugs in her phone and plays it on Spotify. Softly, of course, so she doesn’t wake Quinn, but it’s a fruitless effort because halfway through the song, a sharp turn onto the on-ramp of the 17 shakes Quinn awake.

Rachel decides pausing the song or abruptly changing it would be weirder than letting it go, so she holds her breath as Quinn comes to her senses. She blinks herself awake, sits up, and starts absentmindedly singing softly, “ _Papa, don’t preach, I’m in trouble deep. Papa, don’t preach, I’ve been losing sleep_.”

“Sorry,” Rachel says, and then clarifies, “For the song. I don’t know if that’s weird for you, I was just thinking about it.”

“Why?” Quinn asks.

“I remembered the first day I saw you for who you really are,” Rachel says.

“What, you mean a month and a half ago when we got lunch?” Quinn jokes.

The sun is going down, and Rachel focuses on the pink horizon as she shakes her head. “No, the first day you came to school after being kicked off the Cheerios. You sat in the choir room by yourself and played that song. A beautiful, piano rendition.”

Quinn is silent, gazing at Rachel long enough to make her squirm. “I forgot about that.”

“You were scared,” Rachel says carefully, “but you were honest. Your voice was almost haunting as you sang, and you just sat there looking so pretty, and so fragile after. Then, you got up, closed yourself off from the world, and walked into the halls.”

“Compartmentalizing is a Fabray trait,” Quinn says. It could be a joke, but it’s not. Quinn bites at her bottom lip a little. “You saw some good things in me, I guess.”

“I always have,” Rachel says, and she can only hope Quinn believes her.

/

A week later, Quinn wakes her up with a phone call. “Come to my place. Don’t ask questions.” And then she hangs up.

It’s very ‘Quinn,’ and Rachel feels like a giddy schoolgirl as she gets ready for the day. A quick breakfast of a smoothie, clothing that she knows she looks good in, and makeup just enough to brighten her face without looking like she’s trying too hard.

Quinn waves her in as soon as she knocks on the door, and is saying, “Don’t be mad, but I have a surprise,” as she ushers her to the couch.

“I’m concerned why you’d think I’d be mad,” Rachel says, and the way Quinn is wringing her hands together doesn’t help at all.

“Okay, well, as I was looking at our bucket lists, I caught sight of one on yours,” Quinn says.

“You didn’t read the last one did you?” Rachel practically demands.

“Um, no?”

“Oh, okay.” Rachel relaxes into the couch. “So, which did you see?”

“That you want to learn to play guitar,” Quinn says.

Rachel arches on eyebrow, as if to say, _Go on._

“And, _I_ know how,” Quinn says. “I spent all week looking for the guitar, and I finally found it in the guest room here, and the strings are fine, and I tuned it, and I can teach you?”

“How do you know how to play guitar?” Rachel asks.

“Sam taught me,” Quinn says. “A little bit when we did that ‘Lucky’ duet, and then a year ago or so, I really tried to learn how.”

“You and Sam...” Rachel trails off.

Quinn gives her a look. “No, we’re not together. He’s, like, my best friend now.”

“Well, that’s good,” Rachel says, and she finds she actually means it. “Sam was always good to you. And, I would love for you to teach me guitar.”

Guitar ends up being really fucking hard.

Rachel doesn’t have half the hand strength or flexibility Quinn does, which Santana will make a million innuendos about, and there are so many chords to remember. Quinn makes it look easy, playing about a million songs off the top of her head, and they slowly transition into a weird game of guess the song.

Quinn will start playing a series of chords or a picking pattern, and then Rachel will sing along when she knows the song. She starts to strum an oddly familiar tune, and the music settles deep in Rachel’s heart, though she’s not sure where.

Then, it hits her. Hesitantly, she looks up to find Quinn won’t meet her eyes, and starts gently singing, “ _I_ _just have to stay, and face my mistakes, but if I get stronger and wiser I’ll get through this_. Get It Right, by me.”

“That’s right,” Quinn says, letting her fingers release the strings on the fretboard.

“God, I was dramatic,” Rachel grumbles. 

Quinn laughs slightly, and then holds out the guitar. “Your turn again.”

“Already?” she whines.

“It’s been, like, an hour,” Quinn says, rolling her eyes. “Plus, _you’re_ the one that wanted to learn, no?”

“I changed my mind,” Rachel says. “I mean, kidding, but I think my fingers are wrecked for the day. I don’t know how you play for so long.”

“You’ll build up calluses on your fretboard fingers,” Quinn tells her, shifting the guitar onto the couch beside her. “And the muscles in your hands will get stronger. It just takes time.”

Time proves to be the one thing on her side. The weeks spread longer and longer, allowing Rachel to absorb every single moment of it. They forget about the bucket lists, and eventually start hanging out almost every day just because.

Sometimes, they go to the beach boardwalk, sometimes they go up to the city. Most nights, they cook dinner at one of their houses, and they end the day with a walk on the beach. Every day, Rachel feels her heartbeat a little bit faster, and the dread in her stomach grow a little bit stronger.

She’s still in love with Quinn, and it hurts more than it did when she was a dumb teenager; she knows the feelings now are real. They’re not based off of a fantasy, a high school crush, or a romanticized version of life. They’re based off the here and now, the grown-up, adult mind she’s developed, and emotions more honest than she’s felt in a long time.

It scares her.

Their first sleepover happens just over two months into their reunion. Rachel cooks a weird plant-based casserole from her vegan days, and though it isn’t really all that good, they finish the whole thing, washing it down with a bottle of red.

Both know they’re much too tired to go take a walk, so Quinn suggests Brooklyn Nine-nine. Rachel smiles smugly at that, to which the blonde rolls her eyes and says, “Yeah, yeah, you recommended _one_ good TV show.”

Rachel follows her through the halls of the small, but artistic beach house, and into the room Quinn has claimed as her own. It has a wide open window, which has curtains drawn over it, and there’s a television on one side of the wall facing the bed.

“This room is so... you,” Rachel says. 

“Oh?” Quinn asks.

Rachel shrugs, walking around slowly. On the wall, there’s a cork board. Pinned up are various pictures, most people she doesn’t recognize, one of Beth, one of Quinn and Sam, the bucket list, and a ticket to Les Miserables on Broadway. She doesn’t say anything, but there’s a tense electricity when she makes eye contact with Quinn.

Her walk continues, taking her along a small bookshelf filled with novels that look dog-eared and written into hell, and ruffling through a couple proves her theory right. Quinn is quite the analyst, apparently, with barely any space left from where she’s annotated. _Little Women_ , _To Kill a Mockingbird_ , _Gone Girl_ , _the Westing Game_. 

Rachel just wants one day along to flip through the pages. Penny for her thoughts? Rachel would buy those annotated books for hundreds.

“It’s modern, yet elegant,” Rachel eventually says. “Clean, but lived in. Comfortable.”

“Thanks, I think,” Quinn says. She slides up against the headboard and pats the bed next to her. “Come sit.” Rachel must hesitate a little too long, because Quinn gives her a cheeky grin. “What, never gotten into bed with a woman before?”

“I’ll have you know I have no problem in that department,” Rachel declares, scooting into the empty space next to her.

“I didn’t think so,” Quinn murmurs, and then flicks on the television.

They must be halfway into the second episode when Rachel begins to feel the day’s exhaustion catching up to her. She slumps slowly deeper into the pillows, and her eyes start to flutter shut. She fights it for as long as she can, watching as all the episodes blur together, and then eventually lets herself succumb.

It’s dark when she opens her eyes again. The clock on Quinn’s nightstand reads three in the morning, and the blonde is tucked into bed next to her, facing towards her. She looks just as peaceful as she did that day in the car, and Rachel notes how the blanket has been thrown over her as well.

It’s comfortable. It feels _right._ The realization sparks a battle between her heart and her head, but she shoves any notion of her feelings out of her mind, and turns over to go back to sleep.

Six hours later, she wakes again, this time with the haze of morning light seeping under the window curtains. There’s an arm slung over her waist, and soft breaths leaving goosebumps down her neck. As her mind catches up, she realizes they’re actually _cuddling_.

She rolls over as carefully as she can, but she jostles the bed anyway, and Quinn starts stirring awake. Rachel doesn’t know how she’ll react to the situation, but Quinn just smiles a soft, sleepy grin as she takes in the scene. “Good morning.”

“And to you,” Rachel says. Quinn’s fingers start tracing shapes along her hip, and whether it’s intentional or not, it makes Rachel ache between the legs in a manner far too sensual for the tender moment going on. “We fell asleep.”

“We did,” Quinn agrees. She doesn’t look uncomfortable with it in the slightest, so Rachel forces herself to relax.

“I haven’t done this in a while,” she says, before she can stop herself. Quinn arches one eyebrow, but she still looks half-asleep, so the look is just cute, not intimidating in the slightest. “Slept with someone. I mean, not _slept_ with someone, but slept _with_ someone.” She pauses. “Though, I haven’t done the other in a while too.”

“You’re cute when you wake up,” is all Quinn says. Then she makes a face. “I’m going to brush my teeth. I’ll leave out a spare for you.” She slides out of bed, and Rachel can’t help but miss the warmth of another body, and the weight of Quinn’s arm on her waist.

“Thanks,” Rachel says, reaching for her phone.

“Oh, and if you stay, I’ll give you the full girlfriend experience and make breakfast,” Quinn tells her. Then she disappears into the bathroom.

If Rachel wasn’t sure, hearing the words has confirmed it twice over; she wants Quinn to be her girlfriend. Like, really bad. 

All the ‘what-if’s’ keep tumbling around in her head, and while they scare her, she has to admit it’s nice to be at peace with what she wants. She hasn’t felt so sure about something in a really long time.

Breakfast is a dream, as always, with Quinn keeping her promise. She makes a stack of waffles, while Rachel cuts fruit, and while the conversation flows easily as ever, neither bring up the fact that they cuddled all night, and then woke up to a domestic wet dream.

It drives Rachel crazy. Naturally, she calls Santana.

“She’s into you.”

“How do you _know_ though?” Rachel huffs. The beach is empty due to the overcast sky, and she welcomes the alone time.

“It’s as obvious as it was in high school,” Santana says with a little laugh. “Based on what you’ve said, she wants to bang you _and_ give you the girlfriend experience.”

“That was a joke,” Rachel says, like she’s trying to convince herself. Santana doesn’t say anything. “So, what am I supposed to do?”

“You are a grown woman, Berry,” Santana practically scolds. “You’re the one in this relationship, not me. _You_ have to figure it out.”

She considers just whining, _I don’t wanna_ , but takes a deep breath and says, “You’re right. Thanks for always talking some sense into me.”

“Anytime.”

“And, did you know Quinn was this... amazing?” Rachel says.

“Of course,” Santana says. “But I also knew _you_ already knew it.”

She’s not wrong, and it adds a new layer to the Quinn and Rachel dynamic. The dirty jokes turn the air hot and heavy instead of adding a layer of humor. The hand holding, brushing of arms, and unnecessary touching as they move around each other sets her skin on fire.

It’s the little things, too.

Quinn will say something in that strangely cute, yet mischievous way she does, and Rachel can’t help but picture leaning over and kissing the smirk off her face. They’ll be standing in line for coffee, or out to dinner, and Rachel wants to pay for her. She’ll wake up to the smell of cooking, and catch Quinn cooking eggs at the stove. She has to resist the urge to wrap her arms around her from behind, where she knows she’d rest her chin on Quinn’s shoulder and whisper, “Good morning” into a cheek kiss.

Rachel wants it all.

/

After discovering Rachel has never really _been_ to San Francisco, Quinn plans a day out for them. The deadline of starting work is drawing ever nearer, and while they’ll still be able to hang out, the ‘every single day’ thing is probably not going to happen anymore.

Quinn drives, of course, and they blast music the whole way. Rachel didn’t know how much she loves that Quinn loves music just as much, but every time Quinn yells over the song, “Listen to the lyrics in the bridge!” or “That bass, right?” makes her heart sing. Every time Quinn just nods along, smiling to herself, and relaxes into the beat, she falls a little bit in love all over again.

First stop is Pier 39, which smells like the ocean, and is busy as ever.

“It’s kind of a tourist thing,” Quinn says, but she shrugs, and slips her sunglasses on. “It’s cool, though. I used to go to the aquarium here, like, every weekend.”

“Can we not?” Rachel says quietly.

“Animal abuse?” Quinn guesses.

Rachel blushes and shakes her head. “I’m kind of scared of fish.”

“What?” Quinn can’t even try and hide her amusement.

“Yeah, laugh it up,” she says, rolling her eyes, but she can’t fight the smile threatening its way onto her lips. “I just don’t like their eyes. They don’t blink. Then there’s that God awful way they move, and picturing the feeling of their scales --” she cuts herself off and shudders. “So, yeah, I don’t like fish.”

“I can’t believe it,” Quinn says, but she grabs Rachel’s hand, seemingly oblivious to the way the simple action jumpstarts Rachel’s heart. “No aquarium, though.”

“Is there anything else?” Rachel asks.

“Oh, lots. Food, window shopping, and a little museum with, like animatronics down further,” Quinn says. “Let’s just walk and do whatever until we’re hungry, and then we’ll go to the Golden Gate Bridge. Sound good?”

“Perfect,” Rachel says, and she squeezes Quinn’s hand. 

_It’snotadateit’snotadateit’snotadate_ , she forces herself to chant in her head.

Pier 39 is as lively and busy as Quinn is, and Rachel can see why she likes it so much. Every ten feet, there’s someone selling some weird trinket on the street, there are about a million seagulls flying around, and the whole atmosphere is so alive.

The afternoon is perfect. Rachel counts thirty-two different occasions in which she would have kissed Quinn if she could, but she gets to hold her hand, and she gets to be in her presence, which she feels lucky enough for anyway.

They’re standing on the bridge, in the exact middle, posing for ridiculous selfies, and trying to keep their hair from flying in their face. Quinn’s baseball cap gets ripped off her head with an especially determined gust of wind, and the shock on her face turns to a crestfallen gaze as she watches it fall into the ocean.

“I’ll get you another,” Rachel says.

Quinn just shakes her head at the roar of the wind and yells, “I can’t hear you!”

Rachel steps onto her tippy-toes and leans in close, pressing her lips right up against Quinn’s ear, and whispers, “I’ll get you another.”

Quinn’s cheeks are flushed when she pulls away, and she mouths, _My hero_.

Then she makes a joke Rachel doesn’t even pretend to try and make out over the yelling and car engines and whistle of the wind, but Quinn is laughing, and her grip is firm as she slips her fingers through Rachel’s hand, and pulls her to keep walking.

Later, here’s nothing in front of them but the headlights of Quinn’s car as Rachel says, “I wish I’d contacted you earlier.”

“I know,” she says.

“I mean, really,” Rachel emphasizes. “I _really_ wish I had.”

“Well, same,” Quinn supposes.

“It was on me,” Rachel says.

Quinn doesn’t deny it, but she asks, “Why didn’t you?”

“Oh, man,” she says, letting out a breath. She lets her head rest on the headset behind her, and closes her eyes for just half a second. “You reminded me -- well, you still do -- of a more complicated time in my life. I thought I was protecting myself.”

“From me?”

The hurt in her voice is evident, and Rachel sits up immediately, letting her hand fall on Quinn’s thigh. She soothes her words with gentle strokes of her thumb. “ _No_ , Quinn. From my past. I was dealing with some stuff in high school, and you just happened to become the mental link. It wasn’t your fault.”

There’s silence for a few seconds, and then Quinn takes her right arm off the wheel and laces her fingers through Rachel’s. “We’re here now, right?”

“Right.”

For the first time in nearly ten years, she drinks in the sight of Quinn, and her heart calms down.

/

The day it happens is completely ordinary, which is just so like them, it makes her laugh in hindsight.

They’re in Rachel’s kitchen, as always, cooking dinner for the evening. It’s their last night together before Rachel’s schedule will get all kinds of screwed up with filming.

Rachel is manning the stove, flipping burgers and toasting store-bought burger buns, and Quinn is slicing tomatoes, washing lettuce, and prepping a salad. It’s so domestic, so comfortable, and a Goddamn long way from where Rachel could have ever seen this going when Quinn first messaged her.

Fleetwood Mac is playing in the background, and Quinn is half-singing, half-humming along to the song ‘I do.’

Her hips are swaying gently, and her eyebrows are furrowed as she concentrates on dicing some cucumbers, and Rachel closes her eyes as she sings, “ _I went out on a limb, you reached out for me, baby, and you brought me back again._ ” She must feel Rachel watching her, because she looks up. “What?”

“Just thinking about how we got here,” Rachel says. “I never would have thought we’d have gotten this close in three months.”

“You’re telling _me_ ,” Quinn says with a little laugh. “It’s easy, though, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Rachel agrees. “And thank God for those bucket lists.”

“What was left on yours?” Quinn asks. She pushes the cucumbers into the bowl, and then hops up onto the counter to check her phone.

“I think I wanted to go sky-diving,” Rachel says with a little laugh. “Then I wrote that I wanted to win Nationals, visit Italy, and meet Patti LuPone.”

“Well, it’s a good thing we stopped with those,” Quinn says. “I don’t think I could have made any of those happen.”

“You could make the very last one happen, though,” Rachel says, and she flicks off the stove.

“Do tell; your wish is my command,” Quinn says. Her legs dangle off the counter, and there’s a sappy smile on her lips as she waits for Rachel to speak.

Rachel’s so nervous she thinks she might vomit, which would totally ruin the vibe she’s going for, so she takes a deep breath and steps forward, closer and closer, until she’s settled in between Quinn’s legs. As if on instinct, Quinn’s knees move to grip her sides gently, and Rachel gazes up at her, hoping it’s worth the risk. “Well, I wanted you to kiss me.”

The words hang in the air, and about a million things flash across Quinn’s eyes. Rachel gives up on trying to read them, and just waits for her to speak. Quinn doesn’t, though. She takes one of Rachel’s hands in hers, and traces gently along the side of Rachel’s face with the other, until she’s cupping her jaw gently.

Then she laughs, but it’s not mean, just amused. “That was on mine, too.” She tilts her head to one side. “Well, a kiss from _you_ , not a kiss from myself to myself.”

“Really?” Rachel says, and her mind is screaming, _Holy hell,_ _Santana was right. Not only does she like me now, hopefully, she liked me in high school, too._

“Really,” Quinn says. There’s a playful nervousness bouncing around her face, and the hand holding hers trembles every so slightly. Rachel squeezes it gently. Quinn licks her lips absentmindedly, and then leans in a few inches. “And how do you feel now?’

“The same,” Rachel murmurs. 

The air is so thick with need that she can barely breathe, but it all clears when Quinn whispers, “Can I kiss you?”

Rachel lets out a shaky breath full of ten years of heartache, closes the gap, and breathes, “Please” against her lips.

**Author's Note:**

> quinnfebrey on tumblr. come chat!


End file.
